we are the hunger of shadows ( a story in hands)
by lemonluden
Summary: 6 shot drabble, Misty POV. Technically late, but inspired by the Foxxay Challenge: First Kiss.


we are the hunger of shadows ( a story in hands)

6 shot drabble, Misty POV. Technically late, but inspired by the Foxxay Challenge: First Kiss.

Song of the day: Another Story by The Head And The Heart

1.

You go to Sunday school and all the church lectures with your family. The whole community of your little town gathers out in the fields as the priest talks about God. You a young thing, a wild thing. Your hair flows in curls and bounces off your shoulders as you laugh with amidst lilacs, poppies, peonies.

You're still not sure about God, this God that punishes for sin and turns people into pillars of salt. But you do believe in the love, the life that are so celebrated by this faith. And besides, as your mother tells you, you're not there to understand but to listen, to accept the things beyond you.

There's time when the priest quotes the Bible, when you almost see through his eyes. _You make known to me the path of life, in your presence there is fullness of joy _he reads out one day. He talk about God but you look at the trees, the endless songs of wind. Sweet summer air, growing grass blades, cherries, crickets. In the presence of nature, there is a fullness of joy. There is life.

You see a tiny dead bird a few steps away from you. You pick it up gently, the way daffodils bend when it rains. It's so small, you can cover it with your two palms. You think of all this life around, of all this love, of all this chance. As your heart bursts feeling the immensity of it all, something strange happens. Your hands warm and you feel the bird's wings tingle just barely. You look at it, not thinking, not praying. You look at it. It opens its eye and looks back at you for just a second before it flies away.

2.

Your skin looks like choppy coal. There is no one around. A cold Moon hangs loosely in the sky.

You take a deep breath and then it hits you. You're alive. They tied you to the stake and burned but _you're alive. _Everything spins out of control in an instant. Exploding supernovas know nothing of they way you burst into shock. Fear. Horror. What are you? Why is this happening?

You untangle the remnants of the ropes around you and you run. You run, and run, and run. Your feet are bare naked and every steps feels like a million needless are piercing your skin. You keep running until you can't catch your breathe. You collapse amidst the swamp fields. You cry. You cry, and cry, and cry until there is nothing left in you.

You were so full of love and you family, your own blood, tied you and turned you into ashes. Nothing makes sense. Everything keeps spinning.

When you wake in the morning, a little bit of the coal has faded. You can almost see the white of your hands. You press your palms against the dirt and slowly stand up. You have no idea what's going on, but you're determined to survive. You feel the same type of slow, tender warmth bloom from under your hands. A tiny flower shyly peaks from under the dirt and comes to open its petals, right next to your thumb. You caress its stem. How did such beauty come to be? But then you remember your own family thought you a monster. Beauty, love - those aren't things meant for you. You start to cry again. Soon, the sky cries out in thunder and rain as well.

3.

Few things upset you these days - you can't allow it - but the broken boom box drives you insane. It's the only thing you have. It's the only thing you haven't made. This crooked hut with branch beds and leaf curtains, you've made all of this. You try not to yell at Kyle, you sure well know he's a mess just like you, but you can't stop yourself. It's the only thing you had. Now you have nothing. You know he's going to leave, you know Zoe will take him, and you know Zoe won't stay with you.

These people, they're just feeble shimmers of light in the darkness of your solitude.

You know it, you understand yourself at least this much. Living alone, always running, it's made you different. You're not civilized, you don't talk smart or fit well. Sometimes you just want to open your arms and dance, dance, dance, spin around under the song of the birds. You're crude, you're different - you didn't need Zoe or anyone to tell you that. You know.

But you're still desperate to find a connection. This deep-seated craving, it tortures you, burns you more than any stake. You've grown to recognize a witch is not fully a witch without her coven. But you refuse to just go anywhere. Yes, better to be alone than with just anyone.

As you pick the broken pieces of the boom box, the tape from the cassette weaves around your fingers. Maybe the songs of your soul are really only to be understood by birds.

4.

_The sun still rises even with the pain_, you murmur above the pile of swamp dirt. You've hidden Myrtle under it. You know she can hear you as you feel a little tap from underneath the soil. If not else, getting burned had taught you how to heal scars and how to rejuvenate a wasted body.

There is something about Myrtle that resonates with you. Perhaps her eccentricity, her wildness. But she is much older, much more experienced and knowledgeable than you. She's not intimidating to you, no, but rather encouraging. Maybe one day you too can have the same type of calm poise and inner confidence that she exudes, even now, buried in this stinky ground.

In the night, when she wakes you, you don't even think as you head running to Miss Robichaux's Academy. You felt something eerie in that place, something foul living between its walls. You know a darker magic rests there. But you have no choice. You're being chased by witch hunters. There is no safe place. Perhaps alongside others, you may have something a little safer. Anything will do at this point, you think, as you hear more bullets fired.

You grasp Myrtle's hand and weave her through the labyrinths of the swamps, these lands, your home. She pulls on your wrist and as you're running, and running, and running, at least this time you feel you finally have something close to a friend.

5.

You hide Myrtle in the gardens in the back quickly. You rushedly make her an oil and sit her down. Her body is still frail and tired, the running certainly did her no good.

Shaking, you go to the door, knowing your faith now rests on the kindess of whichever witch happens to be the houselady. You have nothing, no place, no ties, no possessions. Your hear your breath leave your lips in a final worried sigh as the door cracks open. You try to straighten your posture and look like you haven't lived in a swamp for... well, your entire life.

When you see her, you wish you knew nothing of dirt. Nothing of hard ground for a bed, nothing of cold rain for a shower, nothing of softness as the touch of tree bark. You wish you knew everything about how silk feels, how softness whispers, how roses bloom. There is something about her that absolutely makes you freeze.

When she extends her hand, you reach out hesitantly and wrap both your hands around hers. You feel that same warmth of life again - but, no. It is not from your hands. It comes from hers.

Hers, hers, hers. Cordelia Foxx. The witch who gives you a home, who opens the doors to her haven and her coven with a single word. Like it's the easiest thing.

6.

These nights in the gardens feel like your own private delicious secret. And they are.

You've already learned so much from Cordelia. Magic, yes. But also so, so much about grace, and peace, passion and respect, community and family. You teach her your potions, how to heal, to bring life into things. You tell her your stories, quietly, subtly, you weave the words of your past into little jokes and tiny moments of reflection. You worry at first, if she'll have the kindness that most strangers don't, to even tolerate your words. But as the days pass, you see that she even encourages you to speak. You know she can't see you with her cloudy eyes, blue like morning mist and yet, you know she sees what's inside in a way that no one else ever has.

And when you look at her, you want to swallow her whole, her words, her mind, her flaming heart, you want to be enveloped in her life. Not that you would ever say or ask for anything, no. You wouldn't risk losing the one pure thing you have.

It's another night when you can't sleep. You sit in the gardens, just watching the plants, the greenness of it all. She walks up to you, of course you hear her, you know her steps, but you don't move, don't say anything even when she sits next to you.

She waves her hand across your heads in a swirling motion and soon it starts to snow inside the garden. You laugh, an easy, simple laugh. Sometimes she does these silly things just to get a smile out of you.

Not to be outdone, you reach your hand out to touch a branch of the magnolia tree growing just behind where you're sitting. The tree blossom, all pretty white and pink flowers. You take her hand and bring it to touch the petals. She lingers on it for a moment and then moves her hand on your cheek.

She stays in front of you, silent and smiling. You place one hand atop hers, giving the wordless permission. She kisses you in a way that has nothing to do with the tenderness you have longed for all your life. Not the sweetness of the first spring flower's color, not the gentleness with which you've caressed even the simplest grass, not the care with which you've healed small and big animals, melodious birds or gnarly crocodiles. All the love you've ever dreamed of, all the warmth - no, it is not this.

What she gives you is something far beyond, ineffable, escaping any words and anything you know. It feels like freedom, it feels like being home.

Not to be outdone, you kiss her back. Above you, white snowflakes touch the petals of bloomed magnolias.


End file.
